


Poets Come To Life

by TRASHCAKE



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Infidelity, Pining, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/pseuds/TRASHCAKE
Summary: Taeyong looks back and wonders just where everything went wrong. Or alternatively, Ten sings the words Taeyong only dreams of speaking aloud.





	Poets Come To Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Long Live the Car Crash Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456634) by [TRASHCAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRASHCAKE/pseuds/TRASHCAKE). 



> This is a fix up/fandom change for my old baeksoo fic [Long Live the Car Crash Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456634), but with a Taeten twist. So if this seems a little familiar, then that's the reason ;) 
> 
> Each section of the fic has a song to go with it, and you can find the playlist [Here](https://open.spotify.com/user/vbxf7pk9745visee5vtj2jvyq/playlist/3XZtsWDyUrv4mgJYaQbVLC?si=Htk_y2JOSDO1R0ntcW462Q).

There’s a road to fame, and everyone gets blinded by the headlights, eventually. Taeyong’s mind is full of pretty analogies; bright lights and oncoming traffic, anticipation before impact. They’re just words at this point, lacking melody and syncopation, for all songs are just poems until they’re given a tune. 

Taeyong is disappointingly mediocre when it comes to writing music, the notes he strums on his bass guitar are the careful creation of Ten and Johnny’s hivemind. He’s the lyricist, baring his soul to the world through self-deprecation and sarcasm. His clever wit and way with words hailing praise from critics and fans alike.

His previous work is nothing compared to the songs he writes now, each one a lyrical masterpiece; Taeyong tells short stories to a 4/4 time signature. He spends his days with a pen in one hand, a bottle of tequila in the other, crafting words for an album he'll never make, for a band that will never play again.

They call it a _hiatus_ , but everyone in the industry knows a prolonged break is a polite way of saying that the creative spark has fizzled out, that patience has worn thin and they’re sick of being at each other’s throats.

Doyoung has his record label to focus on, scouring local shows for fresh talent. Johnny is dealing with a very public breakup; his ex-girlfriend taking to social media with scorn and contempt as she drags his name through the mud.

Ten’s solo album is set for release, and Taeyong has no idea what it’s going to be like. His lyrics have never made the final cut where the group is concerned, composition only hailed when Johnny is in the wings to make suggestions and fix mistakes. 

Taeyong himself has faded away into obscurity, radio silence from his end meaning friends and fans have forgotten him quicker than he could have ever imagined. 

It’s the end of an era, a group of has-been flames extinguished under the limelight. Taeyong continues to write songs that people will never hear because it’s all he knows how to do.

\---- 

The official origin story starts a few chapters in, the limelight skimming over Taeyong’s struggles, leaving his troubled past shrouded in the darkness where it belongs. 

_Four childhood friends who made a band, then made it big_ is a blanket statement that skips the ever important early days of the group-- lies built on foundations of sand, an easy way to forget their rotting roots.

 _Officially_ , their story begins with the addition of frontman Chittaphon “Ten” Leechaiyapornkul. In reality, Taeyong’s dreams of fame and fortune start in a shitty apartment in the bad part of town, on a mouldy mattress he shares with Johnny.

Plagued by big dreams and bigger debt, they spend their meagre earnings amps, strings and effects pedals, microphones and guitars. 

Even Johnny, who is lucky enough to own a complete set up for his drum kit, still eyes custom steel toms and snares with longing eyes-- as the sole person who takes inspiration from Metallica’s _St. Anger_ album, he aches to mix a more industrial sound with the post-hardcore genre favoured by their local scene. 

Taeyong sings unclean vocals for a metalcore band whose talents are mediocre at best, unpolished at worst; the majority of their fan base stemming from Taeyong’s looks rather than musical ability. In hindsight, Taeyong’s former band makes noise for the sake of noise, disjointed rhythm and an absence of melody, an unsuccessful attempt to musically recreate the festering of teenage angst.

Johnny poaches him from the group once Taeyong’s vocals begin to deteriorate. After ignoring the signs and symptoms for all too long, his habit of not warming up before shows and lack of vocal training causes irreparable damage to his vocal cords. Too broke to afford proper medical attention, Taeyong resigns himself to a lifetime of singing backup. 

“Let's shake things up.” 

With one phrase alone, Johnny begins the motion, starts a musical revolution that changes the world. Only he doesn't know it, sat on his old, mouldy mattress, fiddling with a pair of drumsticks so chipped that one solid hit will shatter them. 

“Why don't we do something different, something that hasn't been done before?” 

Every musician speaks of similar dreams, to start their own subgenre, to inspire and dominate and find eternal fame as the frontrunner for an entire scene. But the resolve in Johnny’s eyes as he holds up Dookie in one hand and Bat Country in the other instils a small shred of hope in Taeyong; if anyone can change the world, it's Johnny. For a brief moment, he's honoured that Johnny wants to take him along for the ride.

“Imagine a fusion between metal and punk,” Johnny says excitedly, colliding the plastic CD cases with a clicking noise that reverberates through the apartment. Even though he's away from his kit, Johnny still manages to create a solid beat; something he'd tap away onto his snare with a bob of his head. “But like, a little softer. Maybe some synth in there too.” 

“Metal-punk-pop,” Taeyong says in disbelief, shaking his head. It’s a crazy idea, but somehow he thinks that if anyone can make it work, it's Johnny. “What a combo.” 

“But, like, _think_ about it,” Johnny all but throws the CD cases away, lunging at Taeyong and fisting the front of his shirt with contagious enthusiasm. “Technical but upbeat, heavy enough for the underground but catchy enough to break mainstream.”

“We need someone with a unique voice,” thoughts and plans rush through Taeyong’s head, books of lyrics he couldn’t use for previous bands; his best work left collecting dust on a shelf. “I’ve got some stuff written that might work, but it needs something _special_.” 

“I’ve already got Doyoung in on guitar,” Johnny says. Taeyong raises an eyebrow. Kim Doyoung plays lead guitar for a reasonably popular thrash metal band. He’s widely known as the best guitarist in the scene. Doyoung is thrash to the core, from his appalling fashion sense and greasy hair to his obsession with everything to do with the 1980s. “Maybe he knows someone?”

“Hasn’t he got a set of pipes on him?” Taeyong plays with the rip in his jeans thoughtfully, rolling torn denim between his fingertips. If Johnny’s dream catches on, maybe he’ll be able to afford clothes torn as a fashion statement, rather than cheap clothes he can’t afford to replace. 

“He wants to focus on playing,” Johnny wiggles his fingers in a poorly executed air guitar, attempting to replicate the speed in which Doyoung’s fingers fly across the fretboard. “But maybe he knows someone?” 

“None of Doyoung’s friends have the kind of voice I’m looking for,” Taeyong frowns. His lyrics need something that suits them; trained but still a little rough around the edges, an unattainable dream voice. 

But Taeyong is fueled by unattainable dreams, idealistic expectations further encouraged by Johnny’s almost childlike optimism. 

Even Doyoung has unwavering faith in their as-yet-unnamed project. Taeyong soon realises there’s more to the guitarist than his cargo shorts and facial tattoos suggest. He’s an absolute breath of fresh air, quavers and time signatures run through his veins like blood; a man so unbelievably dedicated to music that Taeyong often sits in awe of his passion. 

They almost give up hope on finding a vocalist; Taeyong and Doyoung are too critical, and Johnny isn’t willing to trust just _anyone_ with his dream. But fate is a mysterious thing, and their brush with destiny is awfully lacklustre; half drunk and defeated, Taeyong trips over Doyoung’s feet as the familiar tune of Green Day’s _Why Do You Want Him?_ rings out into the night air. 

A kid sits on the sidewalk a little further down the road, the guitar in his hand covered in stickers bearing the logos of bands and skate brands, so much so that the original polished wood of the instrument is only visible towards the join of the neck. If wasn’t such an inconvenience, Taeyong assumes he would have sticker bombed along the frets, too.

“It’s rare for people to know Green Day’s old stuff,” It’s Johnny who speaks, his usual friendly demeanour amplified by the beer he’s drunk. 

The kid looks at him with a raised eyebrow. He’s too good for this part of town, Taeyong can tell. His jeans are artfully ripped, his button up neat and pressed. The bomber jacket around his slim shoulders bears a brand Taeyong could only dream of affording. A middle-class kid trying to be _edgy_ by spending his time in the bad part of the city, before going home to his nice house in the suburbs. 

“Most people only know _Time of Your Life_ ,” Johnny elaborates further, taking an uninvited seat next to the guitarist on the sidewalk.

“It’s a good song, but I feel the rest of the Nimrod album is overshadowed by it,” he says with a drawl, the row of spiked piercings along his bottom lip glinting under the street light. “You can’t beat Dookie, though.”

Johnny extends a leg with all the coordination his drunk body is capable of, nudging Taeyong in the shin. Dookie is on his list of inspirational albums for their little project, and the mystery musician on the sidewalk has dropped the buzzword. 

Taeyong knows what Johnny is thinking, takes a brief glance at Doyoung’s thoughtful expression to his left and knows he’s got the same kind of thoughts running through his head.

“You sing?” Taeyong asks, trying to look disinterested. Johnny and Doyoung both look at the kid curiously, their intentions transparent.

“Yeah,” he says nothing more, positioning his fingers along the frets of his guitar. A familiar bassline echoes from the instrument, and Taeyong is already quietly impressed that he’s playing the notes and melodies on an acoustic guitar. 

_She_ is Taeyong’s favourite Green Day song, an ode to an unlovable, troubled girl sung with Billie Joe’s lingering teenage angst and husky tones.

The kid sounds nothing like Billie Joe, he’s too nasal and trained against the frontman’s raw, neo-punk dulcet. But his voice washes over Taeyong in waves, Johnny taps the rhythm of the track’s drums against his thigh and Doyoung stands with his eyes closed in full appreciation of the music. 

“We’re starting a band,” Johnny interrupts his playing halfway through the second verse, cutting through the lyrics with his booming voice. “Wanna sing for us?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, as if their little venture was just something fun to ease the boredom of being a nineteen-year-old with no future ahead of him, and not something potentially life-changing. 

He joins the band after a thirty-second audition, cementing their lineup and throwing the rest of the group into a giddy fit of excitement. 

It’s not until two weeks later, at their first official practice, that they finally learn his name.

_Ten._

\------

Walking down memory lane is a dangerous endeavour, filled with potholes and obstacles and recollections from the past that only serve to reopen former wounds. Taeyong jots lyrics onto coffee stained note paper; headlights and trucks, potholes and twisting roads. 

His lyrics are words from a scorned lover, a lifetime of bad relationships and one night stands the necessary fuel for chart-topping hits. Taeyong’s obsession with his art once caused him to purposely seek toxic and emotionally damaging relationships-- dating girls he’d tempted away from their boyfriends, junkies who stole his belongings in order to fund their next fix, groupies who would carve his name into their arm after the second time they fucked. 

The most prominent theme to his lyrics is the fact that he’s a pathological liar, pretending that former relationships meant more to him than the inspiration for a song.

It’s one of the many things he’s done that formed the beginnings of fissures and cracks within the group, self-destructive and unpredictable behaviour a cause of constant stress to the other members, their manager, their label. It was only a matter of time until it all came crashing down.

For all intents and purposes, Taeyong is an awful human being, but he’s stuck in a spiral of self-loathing and ego that he just can’t find the heart to end. 

\------

Their first show is a sellout. Doyoung, Johnny and Taeyong are relatively big names within the local scene, so their promises of a new sound with fresh talent have been met with incredible curiosity. No EP, nothing formally recorded and a band name chosen on a whim, they take to the stage.  
“I see some fans of the guys' former bands out there,” Ten addresses the crowd. It’s small, all things considered, but for a new band, playing for a group of two hundred for their debut show is a pretty big deal. “You’re gonna hate us.” 

The crowd laugh, immediately smitten with the newcomer and his pretty face. “Anyway, we’re Alvin Kersh.” 

They name their band randomly, during a band meeting at Ten’s house that turns into an _X-Files_ marathon halfway through. It turns out that Ten is as lower class as the rest of them, mattress as mouldy as Taeyong and Johnny’s. The branded clothing on his back resulting from light fingers and borderline kleptomaniac tendencies.

Ten is captivating on stage, his silver hair glowing under the lights, the microphone in his hand triggering a transformation from apathetic teenager to charismatic frontman. He’s ethereal, and Taeyong can’t will himself to look away throughout the entire show, fingers running on muscle memory alone. 

As the screams for an encore fill the small venue, Doyoung and Johnny pull each other into an embrace; overjoyed, in disbelief. Encore calls for a local band are uncommon, usually reserved for headliners as an act of politeness. Alvin Kersh is a new group, with no EP, no merch no solid fanbase. 

Alvin Kersh is a local band who receives an encore call at their first show. 

“This is it!” Johnny yells over the roar of the crowd, jumping up and down excitedly, almost tripping on a power cord as the rest of them re-strap their guitars across their shoulders, “We’re gonna be big, I know it!” 

Taeyong’s head is void of his dreams and filled with thoughts of Ten; everything he’s ever dreamed of seems within reach, but all he notices is the way the veins in Ten’s throat bulge as he sings. 

This is the first warning sign. 

Taeyong ignores it.

\------

Platinum frames line the flatteringly taupe coloured walls, the sharp edges and cool tones make the display seem clinical and unfriendly. As each Alvin Kersh album reaches a new milestone of sales, Taeyong displays the plaque on his living room wall, a testament to his skill as a musician, the fruits of years of hard labour coming to fruition. 

They mean nothing to him now.

When he was younger he was happy; although broke and seemingly without a future, he still found reasons to smile. Fame turned his soul to ash, he exhales the remnants with every breath he takes. Some days he wakes up, hoping to God everything was all a dream, wishing for the damp smell of decay and sweat to fill his lungs, the sound of Johnny snoring on the mattress next to him serving as an unwanted alarm clock. 

He was supposed to _change the world_ , and he has, Taeyong supposes. They did it, all of them, setting out to create a new subgenre and succeeding; new generations of musicians replicating their sound, hailing them as an influence. 

The birth of a subgenre results in the death of musicians, and Alvin Kersh are the first casualties; hollow husks of men bearing the brunt of expectation and responsibility. 

Doyoung turns to prescription medication, Johnny to sex. Taeyong covers himself in tattoos, the pain of the needle his own brand of self-harm, drowning his worries in an ocean of hard liquor. And Ten, who seemingly holds no vices, just turns in on himself, becoming a social recluse-- quiet, antisocial, a ghost who only exists to sing. 

They hate each other. 

Years of tension explode in the worst of ways, their own stubbornness sparks to the flame of conflict, the permanent hiatus a messy combination of unresolved issues and clashing personalities. 

Taeyong has a book full of songs dedicated to his bandmates, vulgar, messy and far from eloquent. They’re the kind of song Doyoung would love to write music for, his thrash roots the perfect foundation for a grittier sound; but they lay forgotten on a shelf with Taeyong’s other songbooks, lyrics penned in dedication to a band that will never play them. 

Resolving issues won’t help at all, for good music is rarely made by happy people. Taeyong keeps his unopened bottles of antidepressants hidden in his sock drawer, a reminder of what he’s become and a perfect analogy for how he deals with his problems. 

Hiding away from the world, he tries to forget his problems, his bandmates even exist.

Because Taeyong pens songs with ink-dipped in misery. 

Happiness has never been his _thing_ , anyway.

\------  
The decision is made to rent an apartment together in a slightly nicer part of town. It’s still no mansion, but at least they get their own beds with new mattresses that, while still cheap and uncomfortable, aren’t tinted green and detrimental to everyone’s health.

Alvin Kersh finds themselves signed to a record label-- a good one at that, one that's catapulted numerous bands into the limelight-- with a manager to boot. 

Everything about Kun is deceptive; he hides his silver tongue behind kind smiles, the tattoo on his chest has enough gore and mutilated corpses to moonlight as Cannibal Corpse album cover, yet it rarely sees the light of day. Handsome, wholesome Kun isn't rock and roll, he's brutally metal, and his presence and guidance is nothing but a positive influence.

“You’re good, but you need a _thing_ ,” Kun says, tapping a rhythm onto their thrifted table with his pointer fingers, “Like, a gimmick.” 

Doyoung scrunches his nose distastefully. Ever the musical purist, he thinks music should be about _music_ , with cheap videos and simple stages. The idea that this new sound they've created calls for more flashy dramatics hasn't quite sunk in. 

“I've heard about this new thing that's gaining popularity,” Johnny speaks quietly for the first time in his life, he sinks into their old, lumpy couch, shielding himself with a cushion. Whatever he's come up with is probably an awful idea, and Taeyong suspects he fears violent retribution from one, or all of them. “Girls are probably gonna be our major fanbase, yeah?” 

“I don't like where this is going.” Doyoung trails off. Both Taeyong and Kun shush him, motioning for Johnny to continue.

“And uh-- they tend to like it when bands are a little…” He hides his head behind the cushion, “Gay?” 

“No,” Doyoung protests immediately. “There's no way I'm doing that.” 

“It doesn't have to be all of us!” Johnny comically scrambles to explain himself, hands flailing. “And we don't have to fuck onstage or whatever… just touch each other a bit?” 

“If you're gonna queerbait, you've got to go all out.” Kun seems awfully accepting of the idea awfully quickly, as if he's already decided to put Johnny’s plan into motion, “Who wants to kiss who?” 

“I trusted you,” Doyoung whispers to Johnny, throwing his own cushion at the drummer and missing spectacularly, “When you said you had a new idea for a band, I didn't know making out with dudes was part of the fine print.”  
“As we are all aware,” Taeyong decides to cut Doyoung off before he begins to ramble, “I am more than okay with making out with dudes.” 

“I was not aware of that,” Kun says with an affronted glare. 

“Nor was I,” Ten, still new within the group and not quite privy to everyone’s backstories, hasn’t heard about Taeyong’s previous misadventures. He hasn’t been part of the scene for long, either, so for once, Taeyong doesn’t have a reputation that precedes him.

He’s still quite surprised, however. His bisexuality is no secret in their local scene, his outburst at a show with his former band causing a commotion as homophobes try to boo him off the stage. 

With his middle finger pointed directly at the crowd, Taeyong screams insults back at the small group of angry men, watching as his more fanatical followers caused an all-out brawl. 

Taeyong has never seen more blood in his life, and no one has commented negatively on his sexuality, since. 

“While none of you are up to my usual standards,” he continues airily. Doyoung seems to be both offended and relieved by Taeyong’s admission. He tries to gauge Ten’s reaction, but the vocalist’s face reveals nothing. His acceptance means a lot to Taeyong, for reasons he can't, or won't attempt to fathom. “But I'm willing to take one for the team.” 

“Good!” Kun clasps his hands together in a manner reminiscent of Mr Burns of _The Simpsons_ fame, evil plans brewing underneath the artfully arranged quiff of his hair. “If you're out, it'll just make it seem _real_.” 

“It's gotta be Ten or Doyoung,” Johnny says sheepishly, ignoring the guitarist’s outraged cries. “I can barely breathe and play at the same time. There's no way I can do it.” 

“You fucker!” Doyoung seethes, “suggesting the idea and then bailing on it.” 

“I'll do it,” Ten says with a shrug. He wears the same bored expression Taeyong saw on his face that day on the sidewalk. His heart beats loudly in his chest, palpitations almost painful, another warning sign for Taeyong to ignore. “We can do it during our new song. You know that bit where there's a breakdown before Doyoung’s solo?”

“That’s perfect.” Kun replies, “Like, it’s like you guys wrote the song with this _exact_ scenario in mind.”

“I wrote the breakdown so that Ten could tell the crowd to kill each other during Doyoung’s solo,” Johnny shrugs, “but this works too.”  
Taeyong meets Ten’s eyes, they’re unreadable, as always. His gaze flickers towards the vocalist’s lips, pretty and pink, spiked piercings lining the full lower lip. He wonders if they’ll hurt, digging into the skin as they kiss. 

He hates how much he wants to find out.

\------

Taeyong’s songs start as odes nameless faces, but they all end up about Ten in the end. Somewhere along the line, Taeyong decides to give up all pretences and dedicate every word to the man who sings them all. 

Self-deprecating love songs, stories of a man too broken to be loved. Witty quips and thinly veiled pessimism, Taeyong lies through his teeth when he claims not to know who his songs are about. Some are more obvious than others, Ten’s eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he reads over the lyrics Taeyong hands him; surely he can read between the lines, catch sight of notes hastily scribbled out in the margins of lined paper. 

A book full of songs for Ten lies between the others on his shelf, gathering dust with the rest of Taeyong’s unheard lyrics. It’s older than the rest of them, bought the day after their first show, pages filling gradually over the years as Taeyong’s feelings grow. These songs are raw, unashamedly passionate, words he can never speak aloud. 

Ten stole Taeyong’s heart when they were only teenagers, taking it between his fingers and crushing it, leaving Taeyong a broken mess, unable to love or be loved in return. 

Because after everything that’s happened, the pain of Ten’s piercings digging into his skin hurts far less than not being able to kiss him at all. 

\------

Ten sings Taeyong’s lyrics like he's the one who lived them; spits tales of lying and debauchery, of finding love for a night as he gyrates slim hips again the shocking blue of his guitar. 

They're picking up in popularity, selling out decent sized venues, their debut EP charting low, but charting nonetheless. It’s almost terrifying the way their influence spreads; Taeyong signs autographs in convenience stores at three o'clock in the morning, approached shyly by girls wearing his band’s name across their shirts. 

He doesn't fuck all of them, but he fucks enough-- sucking hickies into their skin and leaving without a trace before the sun rises. 

Sometimes he writes about them, his nameless muses fueling a lifetime of albums. Taeyong’s lyric book is his version of notches in bedposts. 

But sex with groupies can never compare to the way Ten kisses. Taeyong’s fingers dance over the familiar chords, his body eager and ready. Ten kisses like he wants to devour, wreck and dominate, licking into Taeyong’s mouth hot and filthy. The girls scream, almost to the point where their music is drowned out by the sound. 

It fades into the background, Taeyong’s focus lies in the way Ten sucks on his tongue, the push of spiked metal piercings into his bottom lip, the breathy groans he breathes into Ten’s eager mouth. 

Kissing Ten is thirty seconds of heaven that condemns him to a lifetime of hell, the slick pressing of lips that has the muse for ten thousand songs running through Taeyong’s head. 

Their lives are almost stereotypically _rock and roll_ , Taeyong sleeps on sweat-stained pillows in rundown motels, a welcome luxury for his perpetual hangover. On the road it's beer for breakfast, lunch and dinner; it's hard to tell where one day's drunkenness ends and the next days begins--- but even the most severe headache is dulled by the feeling of a dream reaching actualization. 

As their fame grows, so does their demand. A national tour playing in decent sized venues, a few international shows to test the waters. It’s not the sold out, worldwide stadium tour they've dreamed of, but it's a stepping stone on their journey to success. 

“Dibs,” Taeyong points the neck of his beer bottle towards a pretty girl wearing the most recent design of their band shirts. Keeping with the X-Files theme, it's a UFO with their band logo caught in its tractor beam. Taeyong is quite fond of the design, but his ego isn't yet big enough to wear one himself. 

Ten and Johnny grunt in acknowledgement, choosing instead to keep in conversation with Jeno, their drum tech. Yet another piece of stolen talent, Jeno’s the kid who played the drums for Doyoung’s old thrash band, before deciding to work with them behind the scenes as his former group collapsed. 

As much as Taeyong enjoys his company, he's much more interested in finding out what tall, blonde and perky’s black fingernails feel like as they rake across his shoulder blades. 

Groupies are easy enough to seduce; they're hand-picked by the security guards, pretty girls they find in the crowd who are extended personal invitations to the afterparty. There's a high chance that they'll have the opportunity to sleep with one of the band members, or at the very least, one of the techies, so most (if not all) of them downright jump at the chance for free alcohol and a free pass into their pants. 

Taeyong has her panting into his mouth within minutes, pushed up against the wall in a discreet corner of the bar. She's so eager, wet and dripping against his exploring fingers, unphased by their audience as Taeyong pushes one, two fingers into her, smirking into the skin of her neck as he makes her tremble. 

“I’m gonna go grab a condom from my friend,” She says, licking into his mouth and clenching around his fingers between words. “You wait right here.” 

Her skirt is still bunched up as she walks away, and Taeyong tilts his head to try and get a proper look. There's no way he'll take her back to the hotel, not when there are locked stalls in the men's bathroom that will do just nicely. 

Doyoung has evidently made use of the facilities, Taeyong notices, as his bandmate swaggers from the bathroom, smug _I just fucked a groupie_ look clear on his face, with a pretty brunette following afterwards, still licking at her lips. 

The groupie disappears and Taeyong loses interest, there are plenty of girls in the bar who would give anything to wrap their pretty lips around his cock, and who is he to deny them? Another girl, just as tall, blonde and perky as her predecessor follows Taeyong to the bathroom with a drunken stumble, manicured fingers fumbling with his belt before the door even swings closed. 

Judging by the high pitched whines, one of his bandmates has a similar idea. It’s Ten, no doubt about it, they've lived together long enough that Taeyong can recognize the sounds he makes while getting off, having walked in on all of his bandmates during sex at least once. 

Taeyong ignores the stab of jealousy in his chest, pretends that the reason he decides to fuck tall, blonde and perky 2.0 over the sink rather than in a stall is that he’s too horny to wait, not because he wants to see Ten’s reaction. 

The stall door swings open, and Taeyong snaps his hips harder, intent to put on a show, licking his lips as he catches the reflection of Ten stuffing his softening cock back into his pants. 

Taeyong’s having sex with someone else, but his mind is on Ten; mind filled with images of his bandmate bending _him_ over the sink, the feeling of Ten’s piercings digging into his neck, what that slick, hot mouth would feel like around his cock. 

Ten doesn't leave. 

Not even as the first tall, blonde and perky girl slinks from the stall and back out into the party, Ten leans against the dirty, graffiti’d wall of the men's bathroom and watches Taeyong as he fucks his second choice groupie. 

The girl doesn't even notice his presence, eyes shut and hands gripping tight around porcelain, blissed out as Taeyong fucks her harder under Ten’s scrutinizing gaze. 

Taeyong comes into the condom, eyes fluttering closed at the intensity of his orgasm, the image of Ten; pants still unzipped, and hair mussed, pierced lip drawn between teeth burns itself underneath his eyelids. 

\------ 

The rules of _dibs_ stop applying once meaningless sex only gives way to emptiness. Filling the void with beer, the four of them begin to compete over women, trying to steal nightly conquests out from under each other’s noses. It’s far more satisfying, the chase a little harder, the satisfaction of winning their pathetic little game much greater than an empty orgasm. 

For some reason, Ten only ever chases the girls Taeyong picks for the night, luring them away with words of sugar-coated filth, finding a secluded corner or empty stall to take the prize from Taeyong. 

Each and every time, Taeyong follows. He stands, propped against the dirty bathroom wall, arms folded across his chest as he watches. Sometimes, the girls ask him to join in, requests for Ten to kiss Taeyong the way they do on stage. 

“Sorry,” Ten says, barely acknowledging Taeyong. “But that’s just for show.”

It stings. So much so that Taeyong gives up on girls all together, adding a bottle of lube to the stash of condoms in his pocket and setting his sights on any boy at their afterparty who looks mildly interested. 

Soon, Taeyong is the one being bent over porcelain sinks and in bathroom stalls by nameless men who make him feel used and dirty, but fill the void in his heart for those few precious moments. 

It’s a short-lived victory. Taeyong watches as Ten sinks to his knees; it’s strange, he never knew the singer held any sort of interest in men, but the cock in his mouth slides into his throat without resistance, and Taeyong can tell that it’s not the first time those pretty, pierced lips have been on the giving end of a blowjob. His technique seems exquisite, and Taeyong aches, hard in his pants, willing to give anything for the opportunity to experience the wet heat of Ten’s mouth. 

On the surface, it seems like they don’t get along, two rivals in constant battle, always attempting to undermine and outperform the other. Alcohol fuels their competitive nature, their inhibitions dropped as they play mind games with innocent hearts. 

But at the end of it all, Ten goes home with _him_. Taeyong relishes in the small victories, stolen moments just before dawn where they curl into each other's sides, talking about anything and everything. 

“My mother was very religious, she hated tattoos,” Ten’s finger runs along the anchor on Taeyong’s forearm, still fresh and itching, the gentle touch soothes the ache in his skin but ignites the ache in his heart. “So we compromised.”

It’s rare for Ten to give rather than take, personal information is precious and heavily guarded, Taeyong relishes in the rare moment where Ten’s walls drop, bathed in the light of early dawn. 

Saint Cecilia, the patron saint of music is inked onto the singer’s throat. Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travel, along his left shoulder blade. All Ten’s tattoos are religious in nature, handpicked by his late mother, signs and symbols and people to guard Ten as he makes his way through life. 

His sole act of rebellion is the _Leviticus 19:28_ written in pretty cursive along his lower back. 

“It's the verse forbidding tattoos,” Ten explains with a laugh. 

His genuine smile is stunning, rarer than even the most precious of gems, and Taeyong clenches his fist to curb the urge to kiss it. They're not on stage, and the moment is far too serious, intimate. 

But Taeyong longs nonetheless, pressing his lips against the ink of Ten’s throat with crumbling resolve. Taeyong wants to kiss Ten whenever he wants, show his adoration in moments when they're not hidden away like this, watching the sunrise through cracks in hotel room curtains. 

Taeyong has a head full of unfinished love songs he wants to whisper in Ten’s ear, a lullaby to ease his often restless sleep. 

Ten has stopped stealing from stores but steals hearts instead, and Taeyong loves him like he will love no other. 

But there's no place for love in a life like theirs, careers built on agony and misery, and falling for Ten will be his downfall.

\------

“Hey,” Kun sounds tired, and he probably is. The low-quality speakers only amplify the exhaustion evident in the manager's tone. Years of looking after Alvin Kersh and later, producing albums for Doyoung's record label, have aged him drastically; premature grey hairs hidden by a bottle of blonde hair dye. 

“What did I do this time?” Kun is one of only two people that contacts him on the regular, claiming concern. His phone calls usually stem from complaints-- mostly Doyoung’s-- and the manager has to deal with him because no one else wants to.

“You know what you did.” 

Taeyong’s done a lot of things to a lot of people, some he’s proud of and others he's not. Kun is being vague on purpose, trying to lay bait that Taeyong refuses to take. 

“I don't know why I'm always the villain,” he sighs into the receiver, pinching his forehead in annoyance. “Why doesn't someone apologise to me, for once?”

There's no innocent party in their conflict, and some words sting more than others. Friends, those closest to Taeyong, know how to hit where it hurts. 

He still bears the scars from the knives lodged in his back. 

“I'm babysitting a group of immature man-children,” it’s obvious that Taeyong’s struck a nerve, for Kun’s anger is as rare as Ten's smile. “Fuck this. You deal with your issues yourselves.” 

“We tried that,” Taeyong points out with a lazy drawl, echoes of past arguments still ringing in his ears, “didn’t work out so well.” 

“I quit,” Kun replies, his stern tone something so unfamiliar to Taeyong, that it takes a moment for him to register the manager’s words. “I’m out. Find a new manager.” 

Taeyong wants to point out that they're on an almost permanent hiatus, and that there's no band to manage, not anymore.

His phone beeps, Kun hanging up before Taeyong can offer any kind of rebuttal. Setting the device on his kitchen counter, Taeyong occupies his hands with a bottle of Jack instead. 

\------

“I can hear the critics now,” Johnny says, waving his hand through the air; the universal sign of a headline. “ _Alvin Kersh’s third album brings a return to their heavier roots, offering a more mature sound to match the more mature lyrics._ ” 

“Johnny, no.” Taeyong groans. He knows exactly where his friend is going with this, and he throws a pile of lyric sheets at him in preemptive retaliation. They flutter to the ground uselessly, missing their mark. 

“ _Lyricist and bass guitarist, Lee Taeyong has shifted away from writing songs about fucking groupies, choosing instead to write whiny love songs for the group's lead singer_ ,” Johnny laughs so hard the guitar in his lap almost slips and falls to the floor. He saves it last minute, mirth still evident on his features. 

“They’re not love songs for Ten, they're just love songs in general,” Taeyong huffs, collecting the fallen sheets from the floor. “There's nothing in here about Ten _at all_.” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Johnny is obnoxious at best, he strums a chord on his acoustic with a grin, still giddy from schadenfreude. “Honestly, I thought they'd be a little more emo. Especially considering the whole _girlfriend_ thing.” 

They've never met Ten’s girlfriend, who, from Kun’s reports, is as pretty and as small as he is. They look good together, apparently, the picture-perfect couple in love. Ten has asked Taeyong to keep his distance from both of them. His new girl doesn't like the way Taeyong and Ten kiss on stage, so they stop. He doesn't like the way they used to steal each other's one night stands, begging Taeyong to let him have happiness, just this once. 

Doyoung and Johnny hold confidence in Taeyong that he doesn't deserve. If given the opportunity, he'd steal Ten’s girlfriend in the blink of an eye, his misplaced sense of possession and jealousy aches to ruin their relationship. 

If Taeyong can't have Ten, then no one can.

“I wrote them before they started---” Taeyong cuts his sentence short, but he's given himself away, but his secret should be safe with Johnny. They've been friends for longer than either of them can remember, an iron-strong loyalty that will never die. 

Sometimes it feels like Johnny knows Taeyong better than he knows himself. 

“Hey,” Johnny’s hands are a comforting weight on his shoulders, the large palms dwarfing his form, Taeyong feels almost safe, protected. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”

“Talk about what?” Taeyong replies, stubborn to the end, he won’t admit to his feelings aloud, not again.  
\“The fact that Ten’s dating someone who’s not you?” Johnny says, squeezing his hands around the bones in Taeyong’s shoulders. “Or the fact that unrequited love sucks?”

It doesn’t just _suck_. Unrequited love is an exquisite form of agony. 

Taeyong rips the feelings from his chest and presses it into lined paper, penning words that turn his anguish into art. It’s his best work yet, and the music Johnny writes for the piece accompanies it perfectly. Neither Doyoung nor Ten are allowed input on the track; the meaning, the story, the song as a whole is one big secret between Taeyong and Johnny alone. 

It’s odd, how people can find happiness from the torment of others. 

The song is their biggest break, with copies of their album flying from the shelves, their songs finding airtime on commercial radio stations and new hordes of fans that come in droves. 

They’ve made it, soaring to new heights on the wings of Taeyong’s suffering. 

\------

Jack Daniels is the closest thing Taeyong has to a friend at this point, the clink of the bottle as it hits the rim of his glass the only noise in an empty apartment. 

Once, the walls of his home were filled with noise and excitement; Johnny and Doyoung holding impromptu jam sessions on Taeyong’s expensive couches. Kun lamenting over the cute session pianist who works for their label. Ten, who arrives in the early hours of the morning, climbing into bed with Taeyong and caressing the increasing amount of tattoos etched into Taeyong’s skin. 

His house is empty, now, and the silence is deafening. Years of performing in front of speakers have deteriorated Taeyong’s hearing, the extent of the damage rivalling that of his throat. His version of silence is a never-ending, maddening ringing in his ears, further exacerbated by the lack of potential distraction. 

The bottle of Jack hits the side of his glass with a loud _ping_ , the loud frequency irritating his tinnitus and causing Taeyong to flinch, spilling the liquor across the benchtop. 

With a sigh, Taeyong makes the decision to forgo the glass entirely, taking gulps of liquor straight from the bottle.

\-------

The first royalty cheque Taeyong receives goes straight towards the downpayment on his first house, a moderately sized apartment in the good part of town, the kind of place he used to dream about living in when he was younger. 

He has no idea what the others do with their money, and quite frankly he doesn’t care. Their communication slows as their popularity booms, too enraptured by their new, famous friends to care about the people from their past.  
Johnny, especially, glows under the limelight. 

Apparently, he plays the drums with enough charisma to warrant the interest of Park Sooyoung, a pretty young pop star with a glittering smile and an affinity for pastels. 

Publicly, she announces her interest in the drummer, and Johnny is apparently smitten; changing his phone wallpaper from a selfie of the band --a rare photo showcasing Ten’s stunning smile-- to one of her recent vogue spreads. The Johnny that Taeyong once knew would never have considered a bubblegum pop princess for a potential partner, the exposure to the popular music industry skewing his views. 

Johnny fucks Sooyoung over the sink of the men’s bathroom like a groupie, Taeyong only knows because he walks in on them; the media calls Johnny a _bad boy with a heart of gold_ and poor Sooyoung falls into his trap. 

Taeyong expects him to chew her up and spit her out, leaving the girl cold and lonely as he slips out of her bed and out into the night. He never expects, not in a million years, for Park Johnny to actually _go steady_ with a pastel princess, who doesn’t even have her ears pierced, because she finds piercings to be too vulgar. 

Taeyong never expects to sleep with Ten’s girlfriend, either, but that’s just the way things go, life in the fast lane. Everything escalates at such incredible speeds that Taeyong can hardly keep up, though, he’s not sure if it’s fame or the handful of MDMA pills that he swallows with a shot of Tequila that makes the world spin on its axis. 

He honestly doesn’t mean to, but suddenly there’s a girl on his lap, sucking on his tongue. He should stop when she starts to whisper in his ear, telling him she’s been asking Ten for a threesome for months, that Ten doesn’t want to share her with Taeyong. He should shift his finger from where it drags along her slick folds, but he doesn’t; he pushes one, two digits inside her, swallowing her groans. 

He really shouldn’t push her up against the flimsy wall of the bathroom stall, but he does anyway. She tells him that _he_ was her first choice, not Ten, and something swells inside Taeyong’s chest; he's finally won, he's taken something precious from Ten, the perfect revenge for stealing his heart. 

Guilt hits hard in the afterglow, he watches her slink back to Ten’s side, pressing a kiss to his mouth like Taeyong’s cock wasn't there minutes prior. 

“I saw that,” Johnny seemingly materializes from the darkness, eyes heavy and judgmental as Taeyong finishes zipping his jeans-- they're torn, for fashion this time, and not from overwear. Just like he's always dreamed. “That's pretty fucking low.” 

“I could say the same about you.” There's a hickey on Johnny’s neck that wasn't there before, his girlfriend on tour and not able to attend whatever party they're at. All the events mix together into one big blur, but Taeyong knows Sooyoung is in Tokyo, her Instagram feed filled with ramen stands and selfies outside of Tokyo Tower. 

“It's not the same,” Johnny says, rubbing at the offending mark like the friction will remove it from his skin. “I didn't cheat on someone I care about.” 

Taeyong doesn't know who Johnny is anymore, the boy he remembers snoring away on a mouldy mattress would never speak like this, never play with people's emotions so nonchalantly. 

“I don't care about her,” Taeyong sneers, his disgust evident in his voice. He's not sure if he's disgusted by Johnny, or himself, if he's brutally honest. “I don't care about groupies.” 

“I was talking about Ten, you dick,” Johnny hisses, pushing Taeyong into the wall. This isn't Taeyong’s friend, it's a stranger in his skin. Johnny is Taeyong’s best friend, his rock his entire support network. Johnny would never do this--- “What would he say if he found out?” 

“Well, I'm not gonna tell him,” Taeyong sounds more confident than he feels, threat evident in his voice. Both of them have secrets, now, and if one spills, so does the other. “Are you?” 

Johnny lets go of Taeyong, defeated. Sleeping with your bandmate’s girl is the kind of drama to cause splits, and everyone’s enjoying their fame too much to risk it. Johnny will never tell Ten anything, and he'll fabricate an alibi for Taeyong if the girl ever decides to reveal the truth. 

Doyoung fucks a stripper that night, the pictures she takes the morning after hitting the internet and going viral. The commotion and scandal silence whatever whispers spreading about Taeyong and Johnny; he hates himself for it, but he's more than willing to let Doyoung take the brunt of scrutiny, his mistakes covering Taeyong’s own. 

Ten and his girlfriend break up a few months later, their relationship growing stale, losing its spark. Her night with Taeyong probably has something to do with it, but Ten remains none the wiser. 

Even after everything, Taeyong never bothers to learn her name.

\------

Secrets and uncertainty, lies and guilt; everything builds up, the pressure forms cracks in their friendships, tiny splinters ready to shatter. 

Taeyong turns in on himself, he stops paying attention to the others when they’re not performing. They play pretend even better than they play their instruments, their act so believable that not even Kun picks up on the tension. 

Doyoung complains with increasing frequency; their sound isn’t how he imagined it would be, the music just isn’t difficult enough for someone with his talent. Neither he, nor Ten had any say on the song that gave them fame and he’s vocal with his distaste for the track, criticizing the music, the lyrics, the mysterious secret he’s not privy to. 

“I fucking hate it,” he spits one night, re-strapping his guitar across his chest, muttering over the screams for an encore. “It’s the worst fucking song, and it’s the one we’re famous for.” 

“If you picked the song,” Johnny hisses through clenched teeth, tapping his drumsticks together in agitation. “Then we’d still be playing tiny shows in the middle of nowhere, and not doing an arena tour.” 

“Cunt,” Doyoung mutters under his breath, but only Taeyong seems to hear him. Despite Johnny’s drastic change in attitude, it’s still _Taeyong’s_ song he criticizes, and the urge to launch his fist into Doyoung’s teeth is strong. 

“Don’t,” Ten apparently knows what he’s thinking, resting his hand over Taeyong’s shaking fist. “It’s not worth it.”

Taeyong pulls away from the touch, since the incident with Ten’s now ex-girlfriend, every touch makes his skin crawl. They still kiss on stage, but it feels wrong, the tongue Ten slides into his mouth tastes like ash, and it’s not from the cigarettes the singer smokes. 

Memories of their shows fuse together in a drunken mess of partial memories, Taeyong relying on alcohol to get him through the day. It’s the first thing he drinks when he wakes up in the morning, there’s vodka instead of water waiting for him on stage, and sleeping is all but impossible when sober. Alcohol becomes less of a pastime and more of a lifeblood as time goes on, numbing Taeyong’s emotions and soothing his irrational worries. 

He finds himself in the strangest of predicaments; lost, drunk and alone, wandering streets he doesn’t know with people he doesn't remember meeting. 

It’s mostly Kun who acts as his saviour, coaxing him through identifying landmarks as he slurs his location into the phone. But sometimes their manager is busy, or openly admits he just can’t be bothered with Taeyong’s shit, and so the other band members are sent on Taeyong Retrieval Duty, much to their disdain. 

It’s Ten who finds him one night, his wallet lost during his binge, phone battery rapidly draining as he sways on the sidewalk, dancing to music only he can hear. 

“Get in the fucking car, you drunk piece of shit,” he yells through the open window, ungracefully manoeuvring their rental sedan to rest against the curb. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Taeyong lacks the motor skills to properly buckle his seatbelt, and Ten refuses to do it for him, muttering something under his breath about car crashes, and how hitting his head on the pavement might actually reset his broken brain. 

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Taeyong lacks motor skills, and a brain to mouth filter, but the words have sitting in his throat for far too long, the weight on his chest lifting as he begins to speak. “You’re so beautiful, I wanna kiss you all the time.” 

“Really, now?” Ten’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road.

“Really,” Taeyong isn’t sure if he’s nodding his head frantically, or if he’s drunk enough for the world to spin behind his eyelids. It’s probably both, so he closes his eyes to ease the oncoming vertigo and resulting nausea. “Always. I always wanna kiss you.”

Ten doesn’t let him speak for the rest of the drive back to the hotel, doesn’t let him speak as he pushes Taeyong into the mattress, kissing the breath from his shaking lips. Taeyong sucks a mark on Ten’s neck, leaving a purple bruise next to Saint Cecilia's glowing halo. It feels like a dream, the way Ten’s hands trace across his body, the way his tongue follows. Ten swallows Taeyong’s moans as he pushes in, lips slick and familiar, but pressing against Taeyong’s own with unfamiliar emotions, tenderness. 

He feels so full, both figuratively and literally; sex with Ten is everything he’s imagined and more. Taeyong's final dream come true; he’s got fame, he’s got fortune and now he’s got Ten.

Nothing else will ever compare to this moment, nothing could possibly compare to being loved so intensely, so thoroughly by the man he loves in return.

Taeyong wakes the next morning on the right side of the wrong bed, cold and alone. Ten refuses to meet his eyes as they eat breakfast, Kun pushing painkillers through Taeyong’s lips in an attempt to quell the oncoming hangover. 

He takes a moment to consider that the previous night was just a dream, an illusion brought on by yet another night of too much alcohol. 

But then, as Ten turns his head away from Taeyong, he sees it; the purple mark on his neck, standing out against the glowing halo of Ten’s tattoo. 

It wasn’t a dream. 

Taeyong feels his heart shatter in his chest.  
\------ 

There’s a notebook on Taeyong’s shelf, filled with songs dedicated to Ten. In his drunken stupor, he sings them from memory. With his voice damaged and breaking, he spills his secrets into Ten’s voicemail, the prerecorded message the first time he’s heard the vocalist’s voice in months. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers that he’s a pathetic mess, screeching off-key love songs to a man who doesn’t want them, ripping his heart from his chest, presenting it to be stomped on. 

Ten made himself very clear, Taeyong isn’t someone he wants, the love he thought he felt so painfully one-sided. But alcohol gives cowards courage, and Taeyong takes one last chance at Ten’s heart. 

**From: Doyoung**  
_Stop calling him_

The first message Doyoung sends him in months is unwelcome, interrupting Taeyong as he sings. Just the sight of the guitarist’s name has him in a fit of rage, the urge to throw his phone against the wall almost impossible to resist. 

**To: Doyoung**  
_fuck odf, thsi isnt about you_

Doyoung, and whoever else is reading his messages, is more than aware that Taeyong is drunk again. He makes no attempt to fix his typos, make his message more coherent. 

**From: Doyoung**  
_You’ve done enough. Just leave him alone._

Everyone seems to know something Taeyong doesn’t, something else he’s done to earn the brunt of Ten’s rage, to further his hatred. 

People are too confusing, and Taeyong’s sick of cryptic messages from assholes who only care about themselves.

His phone makes the most satisfying noise as it shatters. 

\-----  
Album number four brings world tour number one, a year and a half marathon across the globe, accompanied by some new up and coming band that look at Taeyong with stars in their eyes. 

They're all young, pretty and taller than Taeyong. He'd sleep with them all, at once if at all possible, but getting involved with people on tour is messy business, and Taeyong’s had enough drama to last a lifetime. 

Besides, he can see traces of himself and Ten in their drummer and guitarist; Mark and Donghyuck, their names are, the air around them is thick with tension and boyish rivalry. 

Taeyong is civil with them, but watches them with a fascination that one might observe a fatal car crash-- they're a powder keg ready to blow, and Taeyong desperately hopes he's not around to deal with the inevitable fallout. 

Their singer, a pretty girl named Yerim, writes songs that tear boys like Taeyong apart. Just being in her general vicinity makes him nervous and uncomfortable. She's a sweetheart beneath her cold exterior, and the rest of Alvin Kersh are immediately smitten-- Ten takes her under his wing, their voices often melding together in stunning harmony, singing sweet, innocent pop songs with accompanying chords from Ten’s old stickerbombed acoustic. 

Taeyong knows she's nice, but there's something about her stare that tears straight through him, with eyes older than her youthful looks suggest, it's almost like she can tell the type of person he is, what he's done. She avoids him too, probably because of her prolonged exposure to Ten, but it hurts nonetheless. Taeyong has become someone so twisted and tainted, a creature so foul that those radiating with beauty heed a wide berth. 

Jaemin, the final member of their group, is just as jaded as Taeyong. The young bass guitarist sticking to him like glue, taking Johnny’s place as Taeyong’s drinking buddy and otherwise partner in crime as the bridges between Taeyong and the rest of the band continue to burn.

Marauding their way across continents, Taeyong finds solace in Jaemin’s lack of judgment towards his actions, as the younger musician is just as morally unstable and depraved as Taeyong himself. 

“I used to date Yerim,” Jaemin confesses one night. They share hotel rooms now, distancing themselves from their respective groups, taking solace in each others company and the welcoming bodies of strangers. The tension between Mark and Donghyuck is at an all-time high, and Jaemin lacks the emotional capacity to deal with them. “Most of our songs are about me.” 

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Taeyong jests but does not judge, he's heard the songs Yerim sings dozens upon dozens of times, has the setlist and the lyrics memorized. Jaemin’s bass parts find themselves ingrained into his muscle memory. Nothing Jaemin did to Yerim even compares to what he did to Ten so long ago. “A real fucking piece of work.” 

Jaemin laughs quietly, his voice fading into a silence that encompasses the room. 

“It's funny,” Taeyong hates silence. Lack of noise means the thoughts in his head can be heard, and if there's anything Taeyong hates, it's being alone with his own thoughts. “All our songs are about Ten.” 

“Wow, you're an asshole,” Jaemin parrots his earlier words with mirth. “You make Ten sing love songs about himself.” 

“It’s not like I'll ever say it out loud,” Taeyong laments, resting his head on Jaemin’s chest. Their friendship is comfortable, and in another life, Taeyong thinks he could have fallen for someone like Jaemin, but Ten stole his heart and just won't give it back. “So I just say it in songs.” 

“That must suck,” Jaemin says, playing with the ends of Taeyong’s hair. Their night out in Tokyo ended with a box of bright pink hair dye and stained tiles in their hotel bathroom. Taeyong’s not sure if the colour suits him or not, none of his bandmates even blinked at his change in appearance. “To love someone so much, and not have them notice.” 

“It does kid,” Taeyong sighs, the tendrils of exhaustion lulling him to sleep, Jaemin’s steady breathing enough noise to silence the thoughts in his head, “More than you could ever know.”

\------

The best thing about Jaemin is that his morals and ideologies align perfectly with Taeyong’s own. The kid is wonderful company, and offers a non-judgmental shoulder to lean on, he’s Taeyong’s support system as his relationship with the rest of the group crumbles into dust. 

It shouldn’t hurt so much, seeing Jaemin make out with his drum tech, Jeno’s hands in the pockets of Jaemin’s skinny jeans. Taeyong feels betrayed, not because he holds any sort of romantic attachment to the kid, or to his drum tech, but because Jaemin has claimed, multiple times, that the only reason for him to involve himself with someone on the tour is that he’s irrevocably in love with them. 

Jaemin doesn’t throw the _L_ word around lightly, part of Yerim’s grievances with their former relationship is the fact that Jaemin not once told her he loves her, and they dated for the better part of three years. Quiet, sweaty Jeno, has succeeded where ethereal beauties like Yerim have failed, earning the love of Jaemin, who once confessed to Taeyong that love just isn’t something he believes in. 

Taeyong is filled with an indescribable rage; he and Jaemin were supposed to suffer in solidarity, to be loveless and jaded together, brothers united by misery. Jaemin wasn’t supposed to fall for a dude in a muscle shirt, mere days before the end of their tour. His fist breaks through drywall, yet another expense the tour insurance has to cover; Taeyong's left a trail of destruction and heartbreak in his wake, letting other people sort out the colossal messes he creates. 

His hand begins to swell something awful, the ache setting in as he struggles to pull the strap of his guitar across his shoulder. 

“That looks fractured,” Ten’s eyebrows are drawn together in concern as he helps Taeyong with his instrument, “What have you been doing, Taeyong?” 

There are so many things Taeyong wants to say; suffering, surviving, _loving you_ , but the right words just won't come to him, and so he stays silent, momentary weakness allowing him to find comfort in the way Ten’s fingers try and soothe along his bruised and bleeding knuckles.

Over the course of the tour, nearing on a year, the all too familiar kiss between himself and Ten has faded from their show, the break in lyrics where their mouths once slid together replaced by Ten jeering into the crowd, calling for them to scream louder, jump higher show more enthusiasm than they're already displaying. 

This time is different, however, Ten doesn’t even play his part, using his hands to curl in Taeyong’s hair, pulling him close and pressing a bruising kiss to his willing lips. 

He'll never admit it, but Taeyong has missed this, the way Ten licks into his mouth, the feeling of spiked piercings against his lip. Dropping his bass to hang limply from its strap, Taeyong rests his hands on Ten’s hips, ignoring the roar of the crowd as he groans against the singers pretty pink lips. 

They don't stop, even as Doyoung plays his solo, only breaking for air and taking their instruments back into their hands as Ten hears the musical cue to join back in with the vocals. 

Taeyong’s hand still throbs, but he plays the rest of the set with an uncharacteristic smile.

Nothing, not even the stormy look on Doyoung and Johnny’s faces, can bring his mood down.

\------

“What the fuck was that,” Doyoung hisses, all but throwing his guitar at the tech as he storms off stage, encore over and crowds finally beginning to disperse. “Why don't you just fuck on stage, next time?” 

“You never had a problem with it before,” Taeyong doesn't even spare Doyoung a glance, handing his instrument to the tech politely, rubbing at his shoulder where it aches, the weight of his guitar pinches at the nerves something awful. “So what’s the big deal?”

“This band is already all about the two of you,” Doyoung says, rummaging around in his pocket for his bottle of Valium, without flinching, he dry swallows three at once, fixing his piercing glare on Taeyong, “But you had to do your gay shit during _my_ , solo. Take that last bit of limelight that's not yours.” 

“What's your fucking deal, man?” Taeyong asks, rubbing gingerly at his aching hand, both Ten and Johnny remain silent, unwilling to enter the conflict. “It's not about me and Ten, it's about all of us.” 

“It's never been about all of us,” Johnny breaks his silence, “this is the Taeyong and Ten show, Doyoung and I just play backup.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Johnny,” Ten joins the argument, his normally quiet voice booms loudly through the empty backstage area, “Have all your STD’s finally made it to your brain or something?” 

“So quick to defend the guy who fucked your girlfriend,” Johnny offers in rebuttal, smirking as the commotion falls into radio silence. “What, you didn't know? Yonggie and your little girly had a secret rendezvous in the men's bathroom.” 

“You _what_?” Ten hisses, Taeyong see the way his fists tremble in rage. He ignores the way Doyoung laughs in the background and the smug smirk on Johnny's face. “Even after you _promised_ to keep your dick in your pants, you still went and fucked my girlfriend?” 

“I--” Taeyong has nothing to say, so he keeps his head hung in shame, gaze trained on his shoes and the sticky backstage floor. 

He doesn't see Ten charge, but he feels the collision, this injured hand trapped between the wall and his back, the sudden impact causing him to cry out in pain. 

“You piece of shit!” Taeyong deserves the punch he lands square on his jaw, the ache along his face adding to the ache in his hand, “You're filth, you don't amount to your weight in fucking _garbage_.” 

“Oh, this is so good, where's the popcorn?” Doyoung snickers in glee from behind them, straining on his toes for a proper view of the action. 

“I hate you.” Ten hisses, pushing Taeyong against the wall one last time, before storming off down the hallway and out of sight. 

“You fucking traitor,” Taeyong spits the blood from his mouth at Johnny’s feet. “Is that how you treat your friends, now?” 

“We haven't been friends for a long, _long_ time.” Johnny hisses, pushing past Taeyong as he too makes his exit. 

“I'd stay in Jaemin’s room tonight if I were you,” Doyoung says lightly, the guitarist so obviously amused by all the drama. “Or in the garbage disposal outside the hotel. I’m sure you'd feel right at home.” 

Taeyong sinks to the floor as Doyoung walks away, cradling his injured hand and trying to ignore the throbbing in his jaw. 

He doesn't cry, no, even at his weakest, Taeyong is stronger than that. 

But he comes awfully close.

\------

It's hard to find anyone who knows Taeyong personally who would use a positive adjective when asked to describe him. 

Even Jaemin, his former kindred spirit grew bored of his alcoholic melancholy, abandoning him to enjoy the honeymoon period with his new boyfriend, leaving Taeyong cold and lonely with only his bottles and thoughts for company. 

Jeno still calls him on occasion, they were never particularly close, but Jeno is the only one he hasn’t harmed personally, so for some reason, the drum tech finds himself holding some sort of moral obligation to be Taeyong’s sole link to the outside world. 

Johnny’s break up has been public and messy; with a simple Google search, anyone can find all sorts of photos of the drummer in compromising positions, screenshots of lewd text messages and artfully framed photos of his penis; all sent to a litany of girls throughout the years, none of whom being his girlfriend. 

Sooyoung is prolific on social media, and she adopts a _no holds barred_ stance on the breakup, posting scathing memoirs in two hundred and eighty characters or less. It deals a massive blow to Johnny’s ego and self-confidence, and Taeyong takes the initial news with a giddy sense of joy; finally, Johnny has been hit by the retribution and karma he deserves. 

But as time passes and the weight of loneliness becomes harder to bear, Taeyong wishes he was still in contact with his former best friend. Despite everything, he still worries, and Taeyong’s self-loathing splits into equal parts-- he despises the fact that he would still come to Johnny’s aid if the drummer were to only ask. But most of all, he hates that he’s become the type of person who finds unparalleled happiness in the suffering of others. 

Johnny’s ego is set to take another blow, Taeyong learns, as Jeno records the drum track for Sooyoung’s comeback single, a scathing breakup song, full of phrases like _better off_ and _moving on_. Someone else wrote the words she sings, and Sooyoung’s record company buys the rights with the intention to capitalize on the drama, make money from Johnny’s pain. 

Taeyong can understand, to agree. After all, he’s been making money off other people's pain for years. But where Sooyoung’s song is filled with malice and cruel intentions, Taeyong weaves his own agony through the stanzas he dedicates to other people. 

It’s one of the few things that keep him going, the knowledge that there are people out there who are, and by all accounts, inherently more horrible than he is. 

Taeyong is a liar, an alcoholic, the man who breaks hearts and ruins friendships as easy as breathing, but he’s not all bad. 

At least that’s what he tells himself. 

\------

Desperation isn't a good look on _anyone_ , Taeyong tells himself, and so he maintains a consistent state of intoxication to stop himself from feeling. The fight with Ten and subsequent fallout has been nothing but catastrophic, with communication between all members of the band falling silent. 

They keep up pretences, professionalism winning out against petty drama, for the last few shows on the tour, playing nice for the fans, performing to the best of their abilities. The last thing they need is negative reviews on top of failing friendships, and if their enthusiasm to play seems stiff or forced, no one comments on it. 

Kun keeps his nose out of their issues; his job is to manage their careers, not their personal lives and they're all being mature enough to keep their conflicts off stage, so the manager really couldn't care less.

The end of the tour, however, leaves a break in routine that allows Taeyong’s thoughts to slither through the cracks in his consciousness. No longer bound by a sense of duty to his fans, Taeyong is left alone with bottles of distilled spirits and an overwhelming sense of self-loathing that cannot be drowned, silenced, or otherwise distracted from. 

He's always been self-destructive, deep-seated self-loathing stemming from his very core, Taeyong has a lot of issues he refuses to address or acknowledge, a soul-crushing emptiness and dark void in his heart. 

Taeyong hasn't been happy for a very long time, in fact, he can no longer recall what it feels like to experience something that isn't emotional agony. There's probably a name for what he feels, a diagnosis and a bottle of pills with pretty promises for mental stability printed on the label. 

Alcohol is an easily accessible form of therapy, glass bottles don't judge Taeyong for what he has or hasn't done, can and cannot feel. It doesn't offer the human affection that Taeyong so craves, either, and Taeyong plays with his own hair, coos half-hearted praise into the mirror in a poor attempt to recreate the feeling of company. 

The lights along the main road are mesmerizing, Taeyong’s mind thrums, filled with lyrics he'll never write down as he watches the cars fly past. The early morning sees more trucks on the road than there usually is, drivers burning the midnight oil as they speed their way from point A to point B. 

Taeyong wonders what it would be like to step in front of one. Would it hurt? He might finally feel something, the hollow feeling in his chest starting to overwhelm him, eating away at his very being, corrupting and corroding; Taeyong’s nothing but an empty shell, and he's sick of it. His hope for happiness diminishes with each truck that flies past. 

 

_I wonder if dying hurts, for surely it must cause less agony than being alive._

_When one looks to the future and sees nothing but suffering, isn't the logical course of action to take steps to avoid it?_

_I have lived my glory days in the spotlight, and the last thing I shall see are similar shining lights. The idea is comforting, that there will be lights before the darkness and beauty before the end._

_It is better to burn out than fade away, and death brings a certain kind of infamy to a musician that the living can never accomplish. This is my gift to you; as an atonement for all I have done, I give you the fame beyond reason that we all so crave._

_Do not mourn, for I have found peace from the everlasting emptiness, and joy in the light before death._

 

Taeyong’s suicide note is a mass text sent at a little past three in the morning, to a group of people who don't care to reply. 

He's done enough damage, and he takes one last opportunity to appreciate the cold air on his skin before he commits to an irreversible decision. 

Taeyong is at peace, finally.

His ringtone sounds loud and shrill in the empty street, Ten’s name flashing across the screen. He's tempted not to answer, to lay the phone on the sidewalk and stroll into the oncoming traffic. But if there's one thing he feels more strongly than the emptiness, it's his undying and unwavering love for the man who has no reason to call Taeyong in his final moments. 

“Where are you,” Taeyong is weak, oh so weak when it comes to Ten, and the singer’s voice washes over him in waves of comfort “Yonggie, where are you, I'm coming to get you.” 

“You don't have to do that,” Taeyong says quietly, “after everything, you're the last person who should be trying to save me.” 

“Bullshit,” He says, Taeyong can hear the tinkling of keys in the background, the closing of Ten’s front door. “I'm the only person who should be trying to save you.” 

“Why?” He's choking up, tears he's been holding for decades finally flowing down his cheeks. “Why do you want to save me?” 

“Because if I don't, who will?” It’s not the answer Taeyong wants, but he'll take what he can get. Ten doesn't love him, but he wants Taeyong alive none the less and that's enough to ignite a spark of hope in the swirling void of emptiness in Taeyong’s chest.

Lying face down on the pavement, Taeyong dictates his whereabouts to Ten. He enjoys the feeling of cool air on his skin as he waits for his saviour to arrive. 

\------- 

Modern technology is truly amazing, and Taeyong marvels at the shattered remains of his phone as it rings, still functioning perfectly, even after being thrown against a wall. The glass splinters into cracks resembling spiderwebs, they feel rough under his fingertip as he drags the pad along what he hopes is the _Swipe To Accept Call_ prompt on the screen below.

“What?” Taeyong spits into the receiver, expecting Kun’s disgruntled voice to greet him with some sort of sassy response. 

“Hey,” Johnny’s voice hits Taeyong with a wave of nostalgia, stumbling backwards in shock, he sinks into the plush cushions of his armchair, bracing himself on the sides. “Is this a bad time?” 

“No,” His voice is rough, raspy and _oh God_ , Taeyong needs a drink, something, _anything_ to help him get through this conversation. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Good.”  
The silence is awkward, something he doesn’t usually associate with Johnny, the two of them possess the ability to create conversation out of thin air, the talent to converse about nothing for hours on end. “Are you-- are you doing okay?” 

“I should be asking you that,” Taeyong says, “you’re a mess.”

“So are you,” somehow Johnny manages to speak with a tone that’s both lighthearted and serious simultaneously, “Kun says you’re not doing too well.” 

“Kun is overdramatic,” Taeyong replies, fiddling with a loose thread along the seam of the chair, casting a forlorn glance at the empty bottle lying innocently on the floor in front of him. “I’m doing okay.”

“I’m not,” Johnny admits, “none of us are, really.” 

“Sorry,” Taeyong whispers, rubbing at his eyes, tears burn but they don’t fall, and he attempts to ease the discomfort with the back of his hand. “I haven’t really been here for you guys.”

“We haven’t been here for _each other_ ,” Johnny corrects, and Taeyong can tell he’s holding back tears, too. “Maybe it’s time we all met up, had a little heart to heart?” 

“My apartment’s always free,” he replies, “you know, if you wanted to--”

“That sounds great.” Johnny cuts him off, relief flooding his tone. “I’ll message the others, Kun, too.” 

“When should I expect company?” Taeyong asks, “you know, so I can put some pants on or something.” 

He’s fully clothed. Taeyong needs time to clean his apartment, dispose of the empty bottles that litter the once spotless, polished surfaces. 

“I’ll let you know.” 

Johnny disconnects the call, and Taeyong feels as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders. 

\------

“Oh, I thought you were dead,” Johnny snarks as Taeyong walks into the studio, flanked by Ten who rests a comforting hand on the small of his back. The singer has taken it upon himself to look after Taeyong after his _moment_ earlier in the week. He hasn’t been alone in days, but Ten’s is quietly supportive and in no way stifling, so Taeyong doesn’t mind quite so much. 

“Show a little compassion,” Ten says through clenched teeth. “He nearly died.”

“Such a shame,” Doyoung drawls from his position on the couch, a worn out piece of furniture older than all of them. “I was really looking forward to all that _fame beyond reason_ that you promised us.” 

“God, can you even hear yourselves?” Kun makes his presence known, barging into the studio's waiting room and slamming the door, the glass pane rattling under the force. “I called you all in here to get over your issues, not act like fucking children.” 

“You called us in here, because _he_ ,” Doyoung jerks a thumb in Taeyong’s direction, “went and did something stupid. _Again._

“I’ve got a life outside Taeyong’s issues, you know?” Johnny says, “is this going to take long?” 

“It’s not just Taeyong we're here to talk about,” Kun slams his hand on the table as he speaks, right eye twitching in irritation. “He's not the only member of the band.” 

“Right, how could I forget Ten?” Johnny laughs, “the man who sings love songs dedicated to himself. _God_ , this is all so pathetic.” 

“What--” Ten’s eyes widen almost comically, gaze searching Taeyong’s for answers, an explanation. 

“You know what, fuck you,” Taeyong is sick and tired of being at the brunt of Doyoung and Johnny’s misplaced dissatisfaction, the constant pressure from the group reacts with his own emotional instability, bubbling over into a rage that shakes his vision with intensity. “You both talk such big shit, but you haven’t got anything to back it up. I’d like to see you, _any of you_ do my job any better than I do.” 

“I could write self-loathing love songs for Ten if I tried,” Doyoung smirks, “ _oh, Ten, you’re so beautiful and I’m unworthy, because you’re actually a pretty decent person when you pull that stick out of your ass, and I’m just a sack of garbage_.”

His mocking laughter rings in Taeyong’s ears, Ten’s inquisitive stare burns at his skin. Johnny’s hysterical cackling echoes around the small room, and Taeyong _breaks._

“Why the fuck would I write love songs for Ten?” He screams his question, cutting through the laughter. The room falls silent, Johnny’s gleeful expression falls into something more resembling worry. 

“Why _the fuck_ ,” Taeyong continues, voice softer now that silence blankets the room, “would I do _anything_ for any of you? You’re all selfish, ungrateful pieces of shit.”

“I--” Ten starts, “I can’t believe I-” 

“You _what_ , Ten?” Taeyong turns to face the singer, chest heaving with exertion, body thrumming with unreleased rage. “C’ mon now, spit it out!” 

“I can’t believe I saved your life,” he replies, voice cold, quiet. Taeyong feels the colour drain from his face, his rage instantly quietening. “You should have jumped in front of that fucking truck, Taeyong. Saved us all from dealing with your bullshit.” 

“Ten, I--”

“I think what Taeyong’s trying to say here,” Johnny cuts him off, “is that he’s in love with you.”

“I doubt that.” Ten hisses, “people like him can only love themselves.” 

“Wow, you fucked up.” Doyoung whistles as Ten storms from the room, and out of Taeyong’s life. It’s okay, because his heart is already broken, it doesn’t hurt as badly when Ten tramples it this time around. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Taeyong hisses in reply, “with a baseball bat, preferably. One with lots of rusty nails sticking out of the end.” 

“You’re the overdramatic masochist,” Doyoung shrugs, “it sounds more like your kinda thing than mine, to be honest.”

“Get out,” Kun sits with his head resting on the table, hands clenched into fists in front of his forehead. “All of you, _get the fuck out_.” 

Their official hiatus begins the following day, Kun sending Taeyong the news via text, saying that the decision was made by the other three, without his input. 

He’s fine with that, really. If it were up to him, Taeyong would have pushed for a clean break, pouring gasoline on the charred remains of the bridges between them, intent on destroying any connection down to the very foundations.

\-------

Taeyong’s doorbell rings, and he’s honestly surprised to see that Doyoung is the first to arrive. He was expecting Johnny first, then Kun, followed closely by Ten who, no matter how mad, will always arrive precisely on time. Doyoung is the person Taeyong thought would arrive late, if he arrived at all. 

To see him standing at the threshold of Taeyong’s house, a whole thirty minutes earlier than everyone else, is astonishing. 

“Are you gonna let me in?” He asks, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt awkwardly. Funny, how even after years out of the scene, Doyoung still dresses like the guitarist of a thrash metal band. It’s a sense of fashion Taeyong’s always found particularly appalling, but now, after seeing Doyoung for the first time in so long, he finds it almost charming in its nostalgia.

“Yeah,” Taeyong says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “yeah, of course, come in.” 

“I live just down the road, you know,” Doyoung says as he toes his shoes off on Taeyong’s welcome mat. “We're practically neighbours.”

“No kidding,” Taeyong has no idea what to say. Doyoung, who sent him vaguely threatening messages not hours ago, is now in his house, acting like it's been days, not months-- bordering on a year-- since they've seen each other. Even longer since they've spoken civilly like this.

“I've got a roommate,” Doyoung continues, either oblivious to or purposely ignoring the awkward air between them. “I met him through Jeno. He's a paediatrician who listens to heavier stuff than we ever did.” 

Doyoung pauses. “Look,” he says, “I came early to apologize without the other guys around.” 

“Right,” Taeyong can’t bring himself to look Doyoung in the eye. 

“I thought it might seem a little less sincere with the rest of them here, like I was peer pressured into it or something,” Doyoung rarely initiates physical contact, but here he is with his hands on Taeyong’s shoulders, the warmth of his touch sinking through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. “But I just gotta say, no one is making me do anything, okay? I'm apologizing because I want to.” 

“I'm sorry too.” Taeyong says, “I took you for granted, and I treated you like shit.” 

“Can I hug you?” Doyoung asks, his question completely out of the blue. “Is that okay?” 

“Can I write some songs with you?” Taeyong asks in reply, opening his arms and accepting Doyoung into his embrace. 

“It'd be an honour,” Doyoung whispers, holding Taeyong tightly. 

He's never noticed how nice Doyoung smells, the crisp, clean scent of Giorgio Armani’s Acqua di Gio clinging to his clothes and skin. It reminds Taeyong of the ocean, the rocking movements of Doyoung’s body as he sways them from side to side furthering the image in Taeyong’s head. Maybe the song they write together can feature analogies about water and waves as they crash along the shoreline. 

For the first time, the lyrics that run through Taeyong’s head don't further his depression, or make him ache for Ten. He smiles into the fabric of Doyoung’s shirt, inhaling his calming scent and tightening his hold just that little bit more.

“Cute,” Johnny has a knack for many things, and ruining moments is just one of them. “But I'm kinda upset that you started the group hug without me.” 

“I'm not hugging any of you,” Johnny’s entrance is flanked by Kun’s, the managers face still unbelievably youthful despite his constant stresses. “You turned me grey, and I’m never going to forgive you for that.” 

“I thought you quit?” Taeyong jokes with the kind of mirth he hasn’t felt in years. “But I like the blonde. It suits you.” 

He hasn't seen Kun’s new hair in person, only heard about it through Jeno’s regular updates on the outside world. The golden colour honestly doesn’t fit Kun’s still lingering _metal to the core_ attitude, but somehow, he makes it work.

“I could never quit you assholes.” 

Despite his earlier objections, he pulls Taeyong into a hug, anyway. “And the smiling suits you, Taeyong. I like it so much more than your old _jaded rock star_ phase.” 

“Speaking of jaded rock stars, where's Ten?” Johnny asks, eyes fixed on the clock hanging from Taeyong’s pleasantly taupe walls, watching as the hour hand ticks into place, signifying that Ten, for the first time in his life, is officially late. 

“I’m here.” 

Ten has dyed his hair back to black and removed the line of piercings from his lower lip. Taeyong can see a new tattoo on his neck; the first non-religious artwork to adorn his skin. Its an anchor, and it sits right next to Saint Cecilia's glowing halo, in the exact spot where Taeyong left his mark all those years ago. He's overwhelmed by the need to kiss him, see what it's like without the spikes digging into his flesh. 

“Hey,” Taeyong croaks, “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, you asshole,” Ten graces him with one of his rare, beautiful smiles. The sight stuns Taeyong into silence. 

Johnny takes the opportunity to manoeuvre the two of them into Taeyong’s bedroom, leaning his weight against the door and shouting, “You're not coming out until you’ve fixed things!” 

Doyoung’s laughter and Kun’s exasperated groaning can be heard clearly through the door.

“I suppose we've got a few things we need to talk about,” Ten says, still wearing that beautiful smile.

“Yeah, I suppose we do,” Taeyong replies.

His smile matches Ten’s in intensity. 

\------

As it turns out, the rest of the group had gotten over their grievances with Taeyong almost half a year ago, but he'd unknowingly rekindled their anger by not listening to Ten’s solo album as it was released. 

After years of pining, Taeyong’s radio silence seemed like rejection, especially to Ten, who pours his soul into every line, note and verse. 

“You’ve been writing me love songs for years,” Ten says quietly as he hands Taeyong his phone. The music player is open to one of his songs; Taeyong pushes play wordlessly, closing his eyes as the opening chords start to echo from the speakers. “So I figured I'd return the favour.” 

Taeyong knows the guitar Ten uses for his song is the one from his childhood. The stickers are worn and faded, but Ten still cherishes the cheap acoustic like it's the most valuable possession he owns. 

The lyrics to Ten’s song are almost childish in their innocence, something written for a first love; full of sweetness and adoration, verses penned for someone loved so unconditionally. 

And Ten wrote it for him. 

Taeyong kisses him halfway through the second verse, looping his arms around Ten’s neck in an innocent press of lips oh so fitting of the song that plays in the background. 

It doesn't hurt, physically or emotionally as their lips slide together, so familiar yet so new at the same time. It's not a hunger that fuels them, nor unbridled lust. Just the irresistible need to be _closer_ , to _touch_ , to hold each other tightly and hope to God that it’s not a dream, that they’re here, they’re together, they’re in love.

Taeyong kisses Ten, and the only lyrics that flow through his mind aren't ones that belong to him.

\------

**Alvin Kersh (Self-Titled Album) Thanks To:**

**Johnny** :  
_I’d like to thank us! We couldn’t have done this without ourselves!_  
In all seriousness, this album is self-titled, because it’s our story. Every song is based on our past, and the music we were listening to at the time. It’s also because our namesake, Assistant Director Alvin Kersh of the X-Files series, acted as a primary antagonist until his defining moment and change of heart saved the life of Special Agent Fox Mulder. For us, this is our ‘Alvin Kersh’ moment, our change of heart and proof that even the worst people have the ability to change for good. 

**Doyoung:**  
_Thanks to Taeyong for holding my hand through my first time writing lyrics for our band. To the others for not laughing at my attempts. To Kun for finally deciding to go grey naturally, and to Jaehyun, for making my house feel like a home._

**Ten:** _I’d like to thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this. To say I thank the boys goes without question, but I'd also like to thank Yixing for keeping our overly dramatic manager in check during recording. You're an angel. And finally, to my anchor, my everything: I love you._

 **Taeyong** :  
_To the rest of the boys, Jaemin, Kun and Jeno, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To Ten, who refuses to address me by name: I love you too._

\------

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we got together sooner?” The roar of the crowd is deafening, and Taeyong yells to be heard over the thousands of people cheering in unison. 

“Our early stuff wouldn't have been half as good,” the question is meant for Ten, but Doyoung responds instead, slinging an arm around Taeyong’s shoulder, the neck of his guitar digging into his hip. “Your teen angst really made an impression.” 

“Bite me,” Taeyong retorts, his words drowned out by the opening chords of an all too familiar song. 

Jaemin’s group has joined them on tour once more. Partially because their fans often overlap, their similar sounds reaching the same demographic, and partially because Jaemin doesn't want to leave Jeno behind when he goes away for months on end. Their puppy love is almost nauseating, though Taeyong can see the appeal, he grins softly to himself as Ten laces their fingers together while they wait backstage.

Two years has been enough to mellow them out, the wild after parties and drunken mischief of their previous tour are just memories of an age long passed. He’s started therapy. He’s taking his medication instead of hiding it away in a drawer. 

The Taeyong of the present spends most of his nights in his shared hotel room with Ten, and honestly, there's nowhere else he'd rather be. 

Except maybe on stage, where Taeyong shines under the bright lights, mouthing along to lyrics written for the man who sings them.

“We totally warmed them up for you,” Jaemin says as he stumbles off the stage, body shaking still shaking with the thrill of the stage, sweat adhering his hair to his forehead. Donghyuck and Mark filter past, bickering as they always do, Yerim follows closely behind, rolling her eyes at her bandmates antics. 

She offers a small smile in Taeyong’s direction. He no longer feels guilty when he looks at her, the subjects of her lyrics not hitting too close to home, not anymore. 

“Hey,” Ten says, nudging his nose along Taeyong’s jawline, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips. “Good luck out there.” 

“I don’t need luck,” Taeyong says, and it’s true. The songs they play are cemented in his muscle memory, he could play his parts in his sleep, if possible. Sometimes, Taeyong finds his fingers positioned in familiar chords along Ten’s shoulder blades, as they make music of a different kind. “These are my songs, I’ve lived them.”

“ _Our_ songs.” Johnny pokes Taeyong’s cheek with his drum stick.”These are our songs.”

“Of course,” Taeyong tightens his grip on Ten’s hand, Doyoung’s arm still slung across his shoulder, Johnny tapping a rhythm on the crown of his head as the ascend onto the stage. 

The lights cast a silhouette onto the ground in front of them; the four of them, together, illuminated by shining globes and their own effervescence. There’s a road to fame, and everyone gets blinded by the headlights, eventually. It’s taken Taeyong a while, but he’s finally figured it out; the easiest way to avoid disaster, avoid the inevitable car crash, is simply to stay away from the incoming traffic.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me about your favourite mid-2000's emo bands on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/pharmarkcy)


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